


Maybe I'm A Different Breed

by missbeizy



Category: Glee
Genre: AU, Anal Sex, BDSM, Barebacking, Dom/sub, Innocence, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Multiple Orgasms, Overstimulation, Painplay, Restraints, Self-Lubrication, Spanking, Subspace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-23
Updated: 2013-07-23
Packaged: 2017-12-21 03:27:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/895234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbeizy/pseuds/missbeizy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A D/S fic where Kurt and Blaine are forced to go through their Sickness together in a room that they can't get out of.  They have to have sex and engage in a scene or there will be medical consequences.</p><p>Dalton!Klaine, bottom!virgin!Kurt/top!virgin!Blaine, barebacking (but with no canon threat of sexually transmitted diseases), spanking, light pain play, light restraint, oversensitivity/multiple orgasms, self-lubricating anal sex.</p><p>Warnings: there is obviously a situational dubious consent issue here.  But I wouldn't say there is a character-driven one.  Consider that before reading, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe I'm A Different Breed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pureklaination](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pureklaination/gifts).



> This is entirely [pureklaination](pureklaination.tumblr.com)'s fault and also entirely her idea, so thank her for it! Or, you know, blame her. I blame her. It makes me feel better.

"Since when do we rehearse in the storage room?" Blaine asks, looking bewildered.

Kurt, who is far more used to the pranks of public school, rolls his eyes and flops down onto an over-turned crate. "Blaine." He inspects his nails and then looks around, nose wrinkling. "They're messing with us."

"They didn't tell me that April Fool's was a Warbler's tradition," he answers, looking more put out by that than the fact that they are locked in a storage room.

Kurt is cranky and hasn't eaten dinner yet and he is very sure that there isn't a single inch of sanitary space in this entire room. 

But he has to smile, despite all that; Blaine is sweet as often as he is clueless, and for the first time in his life Kurt finds that combination adorable instead of just grating. Oh, let's face it. He's smitten. He might as well admit it now, at least to himself. 

"Very funny, guys," Blaine says loudly, standing at the door. "Come on. Open up."

"They're not out there," Kurt says. "I heard them run for it after they locked the door behind you."

"Well that's just rude," Blaine says.

It's not as if being locked in a relatively small space with Blaine Anderson is a hardship, despite the questionable cleanliness of their surroundings and the fact that Kurt would very much like to eat dinner and maybe get a coffee before going home. It's more that he's felt sick all day today, nauseous and dizzy and a bit feverish. 

He's already taken his jacket off, but he's tempted to pop the top two buttons on his shirt or maybe roll up his cuffs when Blaine looks over at him and asks, "You okay?"

"I'm fine," he answers primly, crossing his legs. "We could still rehearse. I mean, it's not the same with just two, but—"

"Is it hot in here?" is Blaine reply. He's plucking at his uniform, looking uncomfortable.

Kurt does feel overly warm, but he's sure it's just him and not the actual temperature of the room. "A little. Hey. Take a load off. I think they intended to go to dinner first. We've got a while."

"But why would they pick us?" Blaine asks. “This is such a lame prank.”

Kurt clears his throat. This is—pretty awkward.

"I haven't the faintest idea," is his reply. 

Today is certainly not the day to start that conversation.

If they ever do.

If Kurt ever works up the courage. 

His word choice makes him smile softly to himself, and he feels a pang of unbearably sharp affection for the boy sitting across from him. 

These charitable feelings last about as long as Kurt's physical comfort. That runs out quickly, and on top of that the nausea starts to worsen.

After about a half hour he begins to worry that it hadn't been the slightly off-looking spinach and egg white wrap he'd had for breakfast this morning. It wouldn't be the first time that he's become concerned about a sudden sickness; he's been waiting for his capital-s sickness for some time now, and it would just be his luck—

Blaine doesn't look pleased, either. His face is flushed and he's pacing, and he keeps glancing over at Kurt as if—as if he expects something different every time he finds him, or—something.

"There's next to no ventilation in this room," he says into the warm, empty silence, when it becomes too much to stand. Normally he and Blaine have no trouble bantering easily—he has no idea why they aren't talking to each other right now.

Blaine swallows, eyelashes long and low over his pink cheeks. He shrugs out of his jacket with a huff, then resumes pacing. "We should probably write a letter or something."

Kurt tries to smile. "I'll start one as soon as we're released. It's not even funny; I swear, sometimes I think that those guys need to bring their humor into this century."

"Who knew you could lock this room from the outside, anyway," Blaine mutters, pacing a little faster. He pops the top button on his shirt and loosens his tie. There's a drop of sweat near his temple and when he does that the drop slides down his neck and into the collar of his shirt.

Kurt swallows thickly, eyes glued to the path the sweat travels.

He's never really taken the time to notice how wide Blaine's shoulders are. He fills his uniform so well. He's such a boy, so masculine, but then there are little things that make him unique to look at—the way that his tiny waist tapers into hips that have the slightest little flare to them. His legs so slender and compact. His long, pretty eyelashes and huge, round eyes.

But right now it's his arms that are driving Kurt absolutely crazy. They're—very muscular. The hair on his forearms. The way his wrists look when he rolls his cuffs up. 

Kurt has imagined—and can imagine in even further detail—the way that it would feel to just sink into those arms. To feel them close around him, not just in a hug but in a protective way, tugging him close and down and maybe holding him all over, around the back of his neck, around the small of his back. 

God, he's—he's getting turned on just imagining being held by Blaine. 

What is wrong with him today?

He normally has a much neater grasp on the demands of his body.

He looks up to see that Blaine has stopped mid-pace and is still staring at him. This is not an issue, exactly, except for the fact that Kurt's face is red and that he looks very, very far away. 

It's probably very impolite of him to wallow in these thoughts.

Blaine has wrapped one hand around the length of his tie and twined it around the back of his hand. He's sort of—tugging it, jittery and nervous.

"Are you okay?" Kurt asks, tilting his head. He can't fully tear his eyes away from the tie wrapped around Blaine's fist, but he tries.

"Y-you—um." Blaine wets his lips, does an odd little half-turn shuffle, and lets his arms fall to his sides. "It's—just really close in here. I feel kind of claustrophobic."

"Are you? Claustrophobic?"

"Not as a rule, but—um. Right now, a little."

The tension between them, whatever it's made up of, shivers and snaps.

Kurt moves to stand, and only then realizes that he's sweating. The creases of his clothing are damp with it, and his hair is beginning to fall limply under the weight of it. This is strange, simply because it isn't hot in the room, despite the lack of air flow, and he usually isn't much of a sweater.

He could just have a fever, he guesses.

Or he could be having his first Sickness, locked in a closet with the current object of his affections.

Lovely.

The minutes tick by, and there are no signs of their friends coming back for them. Kurt checks his cell phone idly, not surprised to find that there's no signal this deep under the building. He lifts his phone and waggles it at Blaine.

"I assume you have no service either?"

Blaine checks, and nods. "Nothing."

The swirling sick feeling in Kurt's belly is settling, deep and constant, and that along with sweating profusely is not improving his mood. 

He begins to feel dizzy—a stirring in the air just around his head that makes him feel as if the room is moving around him, even though he knows it's not. And then it almost feels as if he's wobbling in place, eyelids heavy and hot, even though he knows he's not. 

He leans against a shelf and clings to it behind his back with both hands. At least that way he knows there is no movement, and he can work against the dizziness.

But Blaine is watching him, now.

Blaine's hands curl to fists at his sides, making his forearms clench up tightly. Kurt's eyes drift lazily over the curve of his waist, linger at the belt cinched around it, at the press of his belly against it as he breathes.

He feels—unstable. As if something deep inside is unraveling. The sense of movement, of his body shifting in space or the room shifting around his body, is only becoming more severe as the minutes pass.

The air in the room feels thin. Breathing faster or deeper isn't helping. He tugs at the collar of his shirt, wishing he could just—unbutton the entire damned thing and strip down to his undershirt. He blinks, but his eyes stay shut for a second longer than usual, and when he opens them again the world is a little fuzzy in front of them.

"Kurt?"

He should be panicking, and in some part of him he is—but that part is shifted aside, stifled, in favor of the weird sensory overload that seems to be taking over.

He feels different.

He sinks down onto the crate he'd been sitting on before. This changes things—all of the sudden Blaine is looming over him, so tall, sweat at his hairline, pupils blown, cheeks lashed red.

"Kurt...?"

God. God, it's his Sickness. And there's nothing he can do about it. He should have realized this morning that his symptoms were too sudden to be actual illness. He should have done something. Said something. Gone to the school doctor.

And the only reason he'd be reacting this strongly to Blaine is—is if Blaine is—

"That's impossible," Blaine breathes, moving away from him, carefully measured steps that leave them on opposite sides of the room in no time at all. "Both of us? At the same time?"

Kurt exhales. Embarrassment floods every inch of him but it's subsumed, distant. It's not the normal way that he'd process the feeling. Pride goes the same route, swallowed up by the sensations sweeping through his body. It's like going under, just a little bit, just far enough to make him a pawn of his own need instead of the master of it.

Master is—or will be, at least until this is over—no longer his title.

He stares at Blaine, chest rising and falling unevenly.

"Oh, god," he breathes.

"Kurt, don't—move." 

He can hear the panic in Blaine's voice. 

They have mere minutes to get out of this situation, because once the Sickness crests Kurt isn't going to care who dominates him, and Blaine—Blaine is going to be compelled to—take what he needs to soothe his Sickness, as well. 

They won't have a choice. It will have to be each other.

The clash of wanting and dread inside of Kurt's chest feels like two tidal waves colliding. He can't cope with how torn the combination makes him feel; his fingers twitch and his body flushes warm with eager, soft desire, but at the same time he has to swallow the urge to want this to stop, to get away now while he still can, before he has to—before they—

He breathes in with difficulty, Blaine's shape wavering in front of his eyes.

It's too late. It's already happening.

He leans back against the wall, knees still primly together, though the urge to—spread is strong, and he can feel himself begin to stiffen in his underwear. 

Oh.

He drags his bag over his lap, not caring that it's unsubtle. He looks down, cheeks on fire.

"Kurt," Blaine whispers, and it's nothing like the way he'd said Kurt's name before. It's a hushed, almost reverent rush of breath, as scared as it is surprised, as in denial as it is brimming with discovery. He has never said Kurt's name that way before. The intimacy makes the hair on Kurt's arms stand up.

"I can't stop it," Kurt says, fingers clenched around the bag in his lap.

Blaine turns sharply on his heel, putting his back to Kurt. For just a split second, the rejection is like a knife between Kurt's ribs—and then he forces the feeling away and tries to feel grateful. 

Blaine would never embarrass or abuse him—Blaine has treated him with respect from the moment they met, in an almost infuriatingly flawless way. It's one of the things that Kurt loves so much about him, how proper he is, how dapper, how—how special he makes Kurt feel, just by being so courteous.

He is everything that Kurt has ever wanted. But not like this. Not like this.

"I won't," Blaine spits, hugging his elbows, head shaking. "I won't do it." 

The words sound forced, even as he repeats them. He's shaking, too, and Kurt can see it—Kurt can sense the same instability in him, only it is a very different kind. A different shape, a different size, a different need. The polar opposite of what is coursing through Kurt's body—Kurt feels like a void waiting to be filled, an empty vessel awaiting purpose, needing only a few commands to find meaning, whereas Blaine's need is to reach out, to shape, to take, to provide guidance.

Two halves of the same whole. 

And oh, how tempting it is, to just let go for once and allow someone else in, allow someone else to—arrange him, command him, take care of him. 

Sometimes it is so exhausting, being on the defensive every day. Wearing clothes like armor. Wielding attitude and superiority like weapons. Never letting his guard down. Never letting anyone too close. Feigning happiness when all he feels is loneliness. Taking rejection as one would take poison, to build up an immunity over time.

Kurt reaches up and unbuttons his shirt. He has to do something; his hands will literally not stay still. He takes off his shirt; the relief is palpable and he sighs, unable to stop himself from running his hands down his chest and belly as he smooths his undershirt free of wrinkles.

Blaine cringes. "I won't—"

"I'm just—getting comfortable," Kurt says, untying his shoes and toeing them off. Simple. Acceptable things to take off in front of a friend. He has to do something, and this is something that he can cope with. Though speaking without desperation is a challenge.

He's used to challenges. Or at least, he thought he was.

He has no control over how aroused he's becoming—it's involuntary and a little frightening, staring down at his own lap and falling into the sensation of getting hard from nothing. He fills, swells, until the angle grows uncomfortable—he shifts his hips but finally he has no choice; he reaches down with a severe blush and adjusts himself so that he's tucked up against the front of his underwear, the head of his cock swollen just at the waistband. He adjusts his testicles between his legs. It takes quite literally every ounce of focus that he has left to not make a noise as he does this, as perfunctory as it is.

Blaine listens, as still as a statue, arms wrapped around himself, still facing the far wall.

He's suffering. Kurt knows from the education classes that he is probably just as aroused, only—

The first time, the submissive has very little control and will come apart at the slightest effort—and continue to do so, growing more unstable until they fall into a coma or until a dominant takes care of them. But the dominant can't find release at all until—until they get what they need. A submissive's body. Only penetration will do. They'll stay hard and desperate and unfulfilled, until they have a submissive on their knees, under them, taking them—

Kurt whimpers; he can't help it. The thought ransacks his brain before he can push it aside. He's never—he has never been touched, and he is as frightened right now as he is aroused. Consciously, he trusts Blaine. But he had never imagined his first time might be like this, and he hates the idea of it.

He realizes that he's still touching himself. Rubbing his fingertips over his chest and stomach. Letting the pads of his fingers linger roughly over his nipples, which have grown hard. He can see the shape of his erection through his pants fully now, and it's all he can do to not reach down and squeeze himself.

Oh, god. It's mortifying. He never even lingers on his body when he masturbates, and he only masturbates when there is no hope of erections fading on their own; he is still so out of touch with his own sexuality, still frightened at the concept of intimacy, still unconvinced of the necessity of it. 

Why can't it all just be hand holding and lingering gazes and heart in the eyes stares across a crowded room? Why can't it just be safe like that? Why does it have to be messy and sweaty and involve nudity and letting someone's hands all over you, letting them see you, and what if they don't care, and what if it hurts, and what if they just use you, and what if they judge you without words—

He's freaking out. 

"Please," Blaine murmurs, hunched over, forehead now pressed against the wall he's been staring at. "Please, stop. I can—I can feel you coming apart. Kurt. Please, stop."

"You know that I can't," Kurt answers, scraping his fingernails over his belly. 

The brief flare of pain makes his throat close up with another whimper. But it's not enough. His own hands will never be enough.

"I won't do this to you. I can't. Not—not like this."

Kurt blinks hazily. The words make sense, but only for a moment, and then he's twisting his fingers into the material of his pants, back arching off of the wall. He has to hold onto something, has to ground himself in something; he feels that if he doesn't he's going to fly apart at the seams.

And Blaine won't look at him. He refuses to see. It's driving Kurt insane.

He would do anything in that moment to have Blaine look at him.

"Suggestions?" he mutters.

"Maybe—maybe if you—touched yourself?" The words come strangled from his lips.

Kurt inhales sharply, pleasure flooding his body in waves. That had almost sounded like a command, and even the hint of a command is enough right now.

But Blaine is wrong, and they both know it.

"Wouldn't do anything. You know that."

Which doesn't stop him from trying. It's the lesser of many evils, not trying to stop his hips as they begin to churn in place, making the crate beneath him wobble. He closes his eyes, working the head of his cock against the waistband of his underwear with nothing but the flex of his pelvis.

It feels good, even though it's not a solution.

He bites his lip, embarrassed. He knows that Blaine can hear him moving, can hear his accelerated breathing. He can't change that.

"Are you—are you doing it?" Blaine asks.

Kurt blows out a breath, digging his fingers into his thighs as he thrusts. He is grateful that Blaine had turned around—but only partially. "I don't even need to touch," he admits, and oh, god, the words coming out of his mouth, please, no. "Just—rubbing against my pants. Blaine. Blaine."

"D-don't," Blaine replies, whimpering.

He stares down at himself, fascinated and overwhelmed when the orgasm hits—it's curiously distant, the pleasure is muted, and he watches his hips stutter as he wets himself, soaking the front of his pants. The dark stain sprawls over his crotch and down the side of his leg and he moans, back bending.

It had been just a flicker of pleasure and relief, and now it's over. He doesn't feel any different and he's still hard.

He whines, releasing the death grip he has on his pants. "God. Oh, god I'm still—"

Blaine twitches, full-bodied and sudden. He turns around, eyes wet, face streaked with tears. His eyes burn into Kurt's. He is just as miserably hard, tenting his slacks shamelessly. He inhales, shoving his jacket in front of his body to hide it. 

But he's staring. He's staring at Kurt's body sprawled over the crate. At Kurt's stained pants and erection still outlined there, uninterested in whatever Kurt could do for it.

He licks his lips. Kurt can almost taste the salty tears that have gathered there. He wonders what it would be like, to be close enough to taste, to put his lips on Blaine's lips, to have Blaine's hands on his body—

Oh, god, he needs it. He needs it so badly.

The thought of touching himself in front of Blaine, really doing it, right here and now, though, makes him want to curl up into a ball and disappear.

Which is an odd thought to have, because he's already doing it, his pale fingers starkly white against the dark gray of his slacks as he rubs down over himself, arches up into his own hand as Blaine watches.

"We have to," he says, throaty and desperate, rocking up into his fingers. He can't help but touch harder, squeeze himself, thumb the head of his cock. 

"No," Blaine replies, eyes filling with tears again.

Doesn't he understand? They don't have a choice.

"We'll go under if we don't," Kurt says, lost to it, tugging the shaft of his cock through his pants. "People don't always come back from that. That's why there's no choice—that's why—" He can't continue. His breath leaves his lungs in a rush.

He can feel it, slippery and sudden, a trickle of wetness where wetness should not be. His face goes hot.

Oh.

It's happening so fast. 

He sits up, head back, whimpering. "Blaine." He inhales, moving his thighs, and he can feel it, the slippery wetness between his—oh. Oh, god.

Oh god.

He stares hungrily at Blaine, knowing that he must look wild—flushed, eyes wet, mouth swollen, nipples hard, pants soaked with come. He knows what he must smell like—musk and sweat and need. He knows that Blaine has the ability to sense just how far gone he is. That Blaine can feel his boundaries and knows just how far and hard they need to be pushed in order to—satisfy him.

Blaine can give him what he needs.

Blaine can make it better.

He stares into Blaine's eyes, unable to accept the resistance there. 

"I consent," he breathes, and as he lets it all go he drops forward onto his hands and knees and crawls across the disgusting floor, foot by foot, until he's at Blaine's feet. "I give you my consent to dominate me."

"No, Kurt," Blaine whimpers, tears spilling down his cheeks. "You're too far gone, you're—it's not even consent at this point—" His hands, strong and curled into fists at his sides, tell a different story. He's holding back—just as Kurt had earlier. He's hiding from himself, unwilling to give over. Kurt can feel the desire in him to grab and take, just as keenly as he can feel the need to submit and open up in himself. "I can—smell it on you, it's like—I've never—" His fists tremble. Kurt stares at his knees, unable to look up but wanting to so badly that it hurts. "God, Kurt."

If Kurt stays this close any longer he's going to reach out. He—he has to be in contact with Blaine. So he sits back onto the floor, trembling with restraint.

"Use my jacket," Blaine says, manners still so important to him, even in this situation.

Kurt takes the jacket and lays it out on the floor, then sits at its edge, slowly lowering himself until he's spread out on it, knees bent, staring at the ceiling. It's better, being flat out on his back, as close to the ground as possible. But only just.

He closes his eyes, letting himself enjoy being hovered over by Blaine.

"I'm a virgin." 

Blaine watches him, eyes darkening. "I know. Me too."

He hears the words coming out, but it's like they aren't his own. He reaches down, touches himself again, but this time he unbuttons his pants first. He strokes himself through his underwear, letting his thighs apart just enough so that his hand can fit between them.

"I'm—wet, Blaine," he whimpers, fingers circling his balls, and—for the first time, he dares to touch lower, finding himself soaked through down there. "Oh, god, I'm dripping," he moans, eyes rolling back in his head.

"K-Kurt, god—"

"Please may I take off my pants?" Blurted, unsure. He doesn't know what he's doing anymore.

"Don't ask me for permission, oh, please, don't ask—" Blaine's hands uncurl. He gasps out a shudder and shakes his head. "Yes. Yes, take them off, oh god."

Kurt struggles out of them. The first thing that he realizes is that he's—getting it all over Blaine's jacket. And something about that just makes him pulse even harder. He whimpers, lying there in just his undershirt and nothing else, cock rosy and flushed and heavy on his belly, his leg lifted just a little so that he can—

"I've never t-touched myself here before," he whimpers, circling his swollen, loose hole with shaking fingertips.

"Oh my god," Blaine moans.

"Blaine, I can't stop—"

"Sweetheart," Blaine whimpers.

He pushes two fingers inside with ease, biting his lip as sensation washes up through his pelvis at the intrusion. It's warm and tight inside and pleasure spreads through him from where he's pressing up, angling his fingers toward his bellybutton. The position is difficult, but he manages to get them all the way in to the last knuckle.

He pants, twisting his hips off the floor to get his fingers deeper. It's not enough. But he knew it wouldn't be.

"Look at me," he breathes, finally, when Blaine still refuses to tear his gaze away from Kurt's face. "Blaine, please. I need you—I need you to—"

And Blaine looks. Looks at Kurt spread out beneath him, pale skin and long limbs, looks at Kurt's cock resting hard and needy on his stomach, looks at Kurt spearing his wet, open asshole with three fingers that are doing nothing to bring him relief.

"Make me feel better, please," he whimpers, riding his fingers with jerky little pushes of his pelvis.

He's gone. It's a little like floating between one soft place and another, even softer place—inhibitions removed, concern floating uselessly like flotsam in deep water. He just lets go. Untethered, the fear that he's been carrying since he began to feel the onset of the Sickness is suddenly very far away, replaced by an unnameable, filthy hunger.

He takes his fingers out of himself with a slick pull, whimpers at the loss even as he kneels upright and lets the tip of his nose brush Blaine's belly.

"May I touch you?" he asks, shaking.

Blaine wets his mouth and swallows, Adam's apple bobbing. "Kurt. I—god, I want—" His teeth dig into his bottom lip. “I want you right now, so much, I need—but it's just the Sickness, and this isn't fair to either of us—”

Kurt dares to lean in closer. The tip of his nose touches the cool metal of Blaine's belt buckle. He puts his mouth on Blaine's clothed erection and kisses it.

"May I touch you here?" he asks, again, even though his first question had gone unanswered, strictly speaking. It's almost as if it doesn't matter; Blaine is shaking under his mouth, so hard that Kurt can see the zipper poking out from the material that covers it. 

He opens his mouth, breathing warm over the bulge. He licks a stripe over it, trembling, saliva gathering at the corners of his mouth. Being this close to Blaine's arousal is enough to make him have to stop and take a breath, just to keep the trembling from making him useless.

The itchy urge returns tenfold and he gives in, whimpering, reaching behind himself, pushing his fingers back inside.

"Empty," he whimpers, gently bouncing on them, feeling the sweet pressure against his insides as he hungrily mouths Blaine's cock through his pants. "So empty, please—"

The urges are coming quickly, now, flashes of things that he's only enjoyed in his darkest fantasies, in dreams that fade under the scrutiny of morning light like fog. Things that leave him with underwear sticking to his tacky, come-covered hips, things that force him to take stock of himself in the middle of the day when Blaine has come too close, spent too much time smiling at him, laughing with him—

The way that Blaine's body, Blaine's clothing, Blaine's proximity can make him useless, can make him want to beg—take care of me. Keep the world at bay. Make me feel things. Blaine's name, spilling from his lips like a prayer, in the middle of the night when he pushes a hand between himself and the mattress.

"Tell me what you want me to do to you," Blaine spits, hands still clenched at his sides, but he can't stop his hips from writhing closer, from letting Kurt's mouth explore. "I'll only do—only do what you want—" He inhales shakily. "But I won't come from your mouth, Kurt. Or your hand." He pants, cycling obviously through all the possibilities in his own head. "We can do whatever you want to get there but—there's only one way that this can end for the both of us." His fingers tense as Kurt sucks the head of his cock through his pants, whimpers muffled against the cloth. "Tell me. Tell me how you want me."

Kurt's mind explodes with images.

He tries to focus on exactly what he needs in this moment, and finds himself licking and biting across Blaine's belt. "I want your belt around my throat," he says—though it's more like just allowing the words to flow through him from a place that he has no real understanding of. "I want your tie around my wrists. I want to be on all fours and I want your—" He blushes furiously, pushing a fourth finger inside of himself as he sucks at the already spit-soaked front of Blaine's pants. "I want your cock in me."

"Oh, god," Blaine moans, and his right hand snaps open suddenly. He reaches out, taking Kurt by the back of the neck and pulling him in. "Oh god, I want that, too. I want to tie you up and fill you up—make you bend for me, right here on the floor."

"Please," Kurt whimpers, twisting his fingers. "Please, need you inside me."

"Wait," Blaine blurts, back going straight. "Wait. Stop touching yourself." His face goes stiff, but then gradually relaxes into a gentle firmness that makes Kurt's body ache. "Kneel up."

Kurt does, hands trembling as they fall to his sides. 

Blaine gently tugs the undershirt off of his torso, breathing heavily as his full nudity is revealed.

"You're so gorgeous," he sighs, taking Kurt's face in his hands. He stands again, and Kurt's eyes follow him. "Take off my belt."

It's getting harder to focus, so undoing the belt takes longer than it should but Kurt manages it, whimpering and rocking on his knees as the leather is peeled from around Blaine's waist and hips, as it creaks, comes loose in Kurt's hands. He can't get away from the smell of the leather; it does something to him, creates an urgency between his legs and deep in his belly.

While he does this, Blaine tugs his tie loose and pulls it from the confines of his collar; the swish of cloth on cloth is loud in Kurt's ears.

Blaine lies the tie on his jacket beside Kurt's knee and takes his belt from Kurt's hands, turning it over his fist once or twice before getting the buckle where he wants it.

Kurt stares up at him, eyelashes spiky with tears, and shakes. 

The image of Blaine there above him, winding that leather around his fingers, pants soaked over his erect cock, is enough to make Kurt want to beg. He trembles on his knees, feeling as if he could choke on the desire rising in his throat, being pummeled by a dozen urges at once.

He wants everything. He wants Blaine's cock in his throat. He wants Blaine's hands on his body. He wants Blaine to hurt him with that belt, or with his hands. He wants more. He's a mess. He can't latch on to any one thing.

And then Blaine takes him by the jaw and tilts his head up and looks down at him and says, "Let me put this around your neck. Let me help, okay?" and it all clicks into place. His heart slows down and he blinks slowly up at his—at his Blaine, so eager to fix it, even if it's not what he had wanted originally.

The belt being buckled around his throat is everything he'd ever imagined it could be—it constricts his breathing, yes, and it's heavy on his skin, but it makes him feel—under control. He breathes, feeling it hold him back just at the end of his exhale, as Blaine arranges the buckle at the nape of his neck, leaving just a little give there.

"So pretty," Blaine says, stroking Kurt's cheekbones. Kurt forces himself to not give into the urge to bite and suck at the fingertips that dance over his lips. He wants to be good for Blaine, so good and perfect that Blaine will get all the satisfaction that he can out of this.

But this first time isn't about lingering over the details. It's about need; they both know that.

Kurt stares at the curve of Blaine's swollen cock in his pants and shakes with wanting it.

Blaine walks around him, behind him. Stands there very still, drinking him in with his eyes, trailing his hands over his arms, making Kurt's skin blossom with tingling and goosebumps.

"Give me your arms," Blaine says.

Kurt crosses his wrists at the small of his back and whimpers when Blaine loops his Dalton tie around them in a complicated but quick knot. His immediate reaction is to tug against the restraint and he does, feeling his shoulders and back go tight as he does so.

"Perfect," Blaine says, breathless.

Kurt feels it everywhere when Blaine reaches for the dangling flaps of the belt around Kurt's neck, using the lengths to gently tug Kurt straighter, higher on his knees.

"My god, Kurt, you are—the most beautiful thing that I've ever seen," he says.

Kurt's body burns at the praise. "Please. Please—"

"I won't make you wait," Blaine replies, stepping up close behind him. "I promise."

Kurt closes his eyes when he feels Blaine's cock through his pants, pressing against the back of his head. He can feel it when Blaine undoes his fly, takes himself out of his underwear and strokes himself, close enough that the head rubs against the back of Kurt's neck as he strokes.

The closeness is everything that Kurt wants in that moment and he breathes out, letting his head go back, letting his body relax into the restraint around his neck and wrists, letting Blaine work himself into a frenzy. 

He can feel pre-come slide down the nape of his neck as Blaine groans and touches himself.

And then it stops.

Blaine tucks two fingertips into the small space he'd left between the belt and Kurt's skin and uses the leverage to push Kurt forward on his knees, and he keeps pushing until Kurt's forehead touches the floor.

"Stay," Blaine whispers.

"Yes," Kurt answers, shoulders shaking.

Blaine is warm, still clothed, over his back, but he can feel the drag of his bare cock all the way down his spine to his tail bone. He whimpers, knees going wide on Blaine's jacket. 

He distantly recalls the lesson on STDs—namely that during Sickness they can't be transmitted—and doesn't even think about condoms.

Blaine's fingers stroke his back, his neck, his hair, in repeated circles until Kurt is shaking on his hands and knees, hips twitching. 

All he can focus on now, though, is his entrance; he's so wet, so open now that he can't even feel the full shape of his rim, only the empty space that needs so badly to be full.

Blaine's hand closes around the wrist restraint and tugs, holding Kurt in place as he touches the head of his cock to Kurt's pucker. Kurt can feel the shudder run through his body.

"You're so wet," Blaine breathes, rubbing the head of his cock in circles over Kurt's hole. "Already so ready for me, oh, god, honey, I—"

The teasing is almost more than he can take. He feels too close to unconsciousness now, though being held down and tied up has put off the inevitable thus far. 

He pants into the stuffy air. It feels like there's no oxygen in the room and the cut of the belt around his throat and against his Adam's apple is making his breath come even shorter. Black spots float across his vision as he bends low, ass in the air, Blaine's left hand holding him open.

Not enough.

He stares into hazy space, eyelids very heavy.

And then he feels Blaine's open palm come down on his ass. The crack of the slap bounces off of the walls, reverberating in the small space and echoing in Kurt's ears.

He gasps, eyes going wide. He's snatched back from that precipice instantly, heart leaping in his chest.

"Don't stop," he begs.

Blaine does it again, and again, spanking his left cheek, then his right, then his left, harder and harder, until Kurt can feel nothing but his skin buzzing with pain and heat. 

It's incredible, the way that the pain digs its tendrils in, working complicated, complimentary knots around the pleasure of Blaine stroking him open. Layer upon layer of pain and pleasure, until he can feel the individual marks of Blaine's fingers on his skin, until it hurts so badly that he can't stop the tears from spilling over.

His body is singing. His mind is a wash of blank, free-floating pleasure.

Only then does Blaine nudge forward between his plush, red cheeks. "Okay?"

"Please," Kurt hisses.

"Oh, god," Blaine replies, sinking inside in one smooth thrust. 

Vertigo, then, in unrelenting waves, making the room tilt. Kurt is unaware of the desperate noises cracking his throat open as Blaine grinds forward, pushing as deep as he can go, only to pull out with a wet, slow suck and then slam home a second time.

All he can feel is a rush of sensation so intense that it takes his ability to process individual moments away. He floats, and then goes under, and it's like a waking dream while he's down there, heartbeat thudding deep and sure in his chest, at his neck, the backs of his knees, the insides of his wrists.

It's Blaine's cock, thick and long, filling every inch of him, making his tight, virgin hole stretch with every thrust. It's Blaine's hands on his tied wrists, his leather-clad throat, holding him in place, not letting him shift off of the safety of the blazer cushioning his knees. It's the surety of Blaine's touch, all hesitation gone, as they both lose themselves to the inevitably of their union.

Blaine slides a hand up the back of his neck, into the hair there, lank with sweat. He leans over Kurt's body, fucking him down into the floor as he licks the dried residue of his own pre-come off of Kurt's neck.

Kurt shivers, back arching like a cat's. "Blaine—" He can't manage much more than that, as far gone as he is. He isn't even sure how conscious he is, or if the word makes it past his lips. Everything feels simultaneously too close and yet so far away.

"So good, so tight," Blaine babbles, his clothes scraping and scratching and marking Kurt's naked skin. "Dreamed about this, didn't even know it was you but it was you, on your knees for me, on your back for me—all mine."

Kurt whimpers. "Would you—touch—"

"God, yes, let me," Blaine says, kissing Kurt's shoulder blades. 

"I think I came again when you pushed inside," Kurt whispers, a little awed—his cock is wet and the blazer under him is sticky but he doesn't remember any of it, and he's still hard. "And again when you—spanked me. Oh my god I've come so many times and I don't even—remember—Blaine—"

"Can you come again?" Blaine asks, rough and low, mouthing the back of his neck.

"Yes," Kurt hisses, fucking himself on Blaine's cock. "Stay hard in me, and I can." His face is burning, but politeness is meaningless right now. He lowers his voice. "You're big. You're so big, and hard, Blaine, all I can feel is you—in my belly, almost—"

"God," Blaine hisses, holding him around his chest and fucking down into him. "God, yes."

The last time he comes it almost hurts; the friction on his cock definitely hurts, but all that does is make it sweeter when it happens. He holds his breath, then pants it out frantically as he arches against Blaine's clothed weight, Blaine's hand moving over him in desperate tugs.

"Close," he says, forehead on the floor, Blaine so deep and full inside of him, just grinding now. "C-close, close, please, don't, just—like that, just keep moving inside me, just—Blaine—Blaine—"

"That's it," Blaine pants, hips working, their bodies slapping loudly together. "That's it, come for me, come for me, Kurt. Take care of you, I promise, I'll take such good care—"

There's almost nothing left, but when he comes this last time his cock spits a few weak dribbles; he slumps, exhausted but still vibrating, still feeling Blaine's hips rocking into him. 

"Want your c-come," he whimpers, squeezing his ass harder around Blaine's cock.

At this point, it's actually more like need. They're so close to finishing this, so close to making the Sickness abate that Kurt can taste it, like a hint of fresh, clean air after holding his breath underwater for too long.

"Oh my god," Blaine gasps, shaking. He grasps Kurt tightly, one arm going around his shoulder, the other wrapping around his chest, hugging him so close that there isn't room for a breath between their bodies. 

He goes wild when he comes, body twitching, muscles ticking, hips churning against Kurt's.

Kurt blacks eyes, eyes rolling back in his head.

He wakes up not longer after, realizing that he's on his side on a blanket made up of their combined clothing. Blaine had apparently taken off the rest of his when Kurt had been—asleep. The disheveled tie and twisted belt lie somewhere near his feet.

He opens his eyes drowsily. Blaine is spooned up behind him, one arm flung over his waist, face buried in the back of Kurt's neck. 

The room smells like sweat and semen. Kurt breathes out; his body is satisfied and the Sickness is gone, buzzing pleasure left in its place.

Blaine kisses the back of his neck. "Hey."

"Oh, god."

He can feel the tentative smile tug Blaine's mouth wide against his skin. "Feeling okay? I—I know that isn't what you wanted, but—I think we—did okay? It was scary. I'm—sorry if I—I freaked out at the beginning, there.”

Kurt rolls over with some difficulty—he really had a number done on his ass, both inside and out—and they look each other in the eye for the first time since it started, not influenced by the Sickness.

"Is it over? I mean, I feel like it is. I feel amazing, but—it was my first."

"It was my first, too, Kurt," Blaine says, smiling shyly. "Um, but yeah, it's over."

"Good. I can do this, then," Kurt replies, and kisses Blaine.

Who stiffens, then goes soft against him, kissing him back with a slow, tender press of his mouth. He blinks when they separate to breathe. "Kurt?"

"You said—you'd take care of me," he replies, eyes bright, cheeks flushed. "Did you mean it?"

"God, yes," Blaine answers. "Of course I meant it. I just had no idea you—"

Kurt kisses him again. "We can talk about it later. After we find and murder a certain group of friends that we share."

Blaine smiles, pressing his lips to the bow of Kurt's mouth. "I dunno. I kind of think we owe them a thank you, now."


End file.
